


Long Memory, Short Fuse

by Alienspawn



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alienspawn/pseuds/Alienspawn
Summary: “I’m a Mandalorian. I work for the Guild.” It was as good a defense as he could offer. Contracts were always handed out by someone higher up, no direct contact between him and the employer. He knew the first rule of working for the Guild. Don’t ask questions. For the first time, he began to understand the implications of that rule.She took his meaning in stride. “No questions asked, huh? Deniability doesn’t change anything, Mandalorian. Not for me.” He straightened a bit as her finger twitched on the trigger. His time was running out. “I’m not going back.”Din Djarin is the best bounty hunter in the Outer Rim. It isn't an egotistical claim. His track record speaks for itself. If you're unlucky enough to have your fob in his hands, you're as good as caught. Caught, or dead. That depends on you. Either way, the Mandalorian always gets his quarry. That is, with one exception.It's not the hit to his reputation that bothers him. It's what she did as she escaped. The years have done nothing to quell his need to find her again, to restore the balance she disrupted. But a lot has changed by the time he finally finds her again, and circumstances might just require him to rethink things. A lot of things.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	1. Mando'ad draar digu

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a Star Wars fic for so long, but the grand scope and mysticism of the Jedi and Sith, Light Side and Dark Side, was a little too grand for me to tackle. Enter the Mandalorian, everyone's favorite quiet, flawed, gunslinging space dad. I respect the heck out of the show for avoiding romance for Din, but gosh darn it do I want emotionally closed-off men to find love. 
> 
> It's not going to be easy, but when has anything ever been easy for the Mandalorian?

After two hours’ vigilant observation, he was ready to make his approach. The Mandalorian didn’t always hang back. Usually, he tracked down his bounty as quickly as possible and brought them in the same way. Oftentimes his quarry weren’t the type to remain on guard, either overly confident that their own brute strength would be enough to overcome any threat or too clueless to know the threat even existed. Both worked to his advantage. Sometimes, though, they had enough wits to be on the lookout. That, or enough fear. He couldn’t say which motivated his current target’s alertness as she picked their way through the woods. Either way, he’d have to be cautious.

According to Karga, three bounty hunters had already tracked her to this planet over the last few months. None of them had returned. Entralla, as far as anyone knew, was uninhabited. Not enough resources to make up for its remoteness. No settlements meant no-one to ask about his target and, more frustratingly, no obvious places to start. But he wasn’t at a total loss. If she’d been here for months, chances were she’d camped out somewhere with all the necessities: shelter, fresh water, some kind of dependable food, and enough places to hide. A quick scan of the planet had shown one particularly suitable area, and he’d landed the _Razor Crest_ just far enough away to hide his approach.

He’d flipped on the infrared in his helmet almost as soon as he stepped foot on the heavily forested planet surface, the trees packed too densely to rely on normal site alone.

_As good a place as any to disappear._

She clearly had some idea what she was doing, choosing this place. Not to mention the three hunters that had come before him, never to return. He prepared himself for a stealthy approach. Not his favorite, but still well within his skill set.

Between the augmented vision and the tracking fob’s beeping proximity alerts, he’d found her fairly easily. He turned the fob off as soon as he saw the red silhouette of her body heat flash between the cool-toned trees in the distance, concerned the sound of it would give him away. He no longer needed it anyway. He followed her from a safe distance, confident that he wouldn’t lose her, waiting for the perfect window.

She stopped once, shortly after he’d started following her, turning in place as if she knew she was no longer alone. From this distance, he couldn’t see her eyes, but he could have sworn he felt them linger over where he stood, silent and hidden in the shadows. He shook it off as a mere coincidence. There was no way she could know he was there. There was a reason he was the _beroya_ for his covert. All Mandalorians were good at fighting; some much better than he was, but none of them were as good at hunting. At this distance his already near-silent approach was inaudible, his russet armor blending seamlessly into the wooded surroundings. She hadn’t stopped since, and he continued confidently following her.

Now, just over two hours later, he was ready to get this over with. There had been a time when he had enjoyed his work. It was a stark contrast to a life spent underground surrounded by other, faceless Mandalorians. His jobs had introduced him to countless new worlds, given him the chance to experience the vast variety of life that populated the galaxy outside his insular covert. It had been interesting, even if it was seldom pleasant. A decade had taken the shine off that Jogan fruit. Now, it was just a means to an end.

It still had its uses, though. People revealed a lot about themselves when they thought no one was watching. Anyone who had slipped the Guild for this long was worth the extra caution. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize his quarry had trouble with the peripheral vision on her left side. She turned her head that way often, the reflex to check her apparent blind spot seemingly second nature. Still, she was light on her feet, gliding over the forest debris with quiet, sure steps. Clearly, the staff she carried wasn’t for balance. A weapon then. He made a mental list of each observation.

_Agile. Familiar with the landscape. Right-handed. Vulnerable from the left._

He turned off the infrared filter on his HUD. It was enough to form an attack plan. He cut a diagonal in order to flank her and take advantage of her limited sight. Before long he was stalking beside her, darting from trunk to trunk as he closed the distance between them. She continued on steadily, blind to his approach, deaf to his footfalls on the soft detritus. The majority of his work was done. Now he just had to bring her in.

Or so he thought.

He was still thirty paces away when he made his move. With a practiced flip of his arm, the grappling line shot from the vambrace on his wrist, a striking snake of metal as it shot towards her blind side. She didn’t see him deploy the line; didn’t see it fly through the air, ready to ensnare her in its unyielding bind; didn’t see the pursuit and its inevitable end.

Yet she still blocked it.

The line was about to meet its mark when she suddenly spun, the wooden staff in her hand raised to intercept. It coiled around the pole tightly as she brought her other hand up to brace it.

“Nice try,” she smirked, meeting his eye line behind the tinted visor. A jagged scar sat, red and ugly, beside her left eye. So he’d been right about her vision.

_How then, did she manage that?_

He didn’t have time to ponder her response before she jerked the staff. The grappling line, still tethered to his vambrace, pulled him towards her sharply. Unprepared, he tumbled forward gracelessly before a fallen branch caught his ankle and he fell flat on his face. He scrambled up as quickly as he could, detaching the line as he did. By the time he was on his feet, she was nowhere to be seen. He went to reach for his blaster, but it wasn’t in the holster on his hip.

“Looking for this?”

He turned around to see a blaster, _his blaster_ , pointed straight at him. Fear wasn’t the right word for how he felt as he took in the woman who had so effortlessly bested him. Mandalorians did not feel fear. He was, however, very uneasy.

She was a few inches shorter than him. Her clothing, neutral in tone and utilitarian, seemed designed to protect her from much scrutiny as much as it meant to help her blend into the scenery. A threadbare camel-brown cowl that encircled her left only her eyes uncovered. Their dark green depths studied him evenly, unwavering. Her left, the one kissed by the scar, was a little lighter than its undamaged partner, a milky film spreading from its outer corner to partially cover the iris. The trauma did nothing to dampen the intensity of her gaze.

Slowly, he brought his hands up, the universal sign of surrender. Hidden under the beskar, his eyes flitted to the vambrace that housed his flamethrower. He hadn’t had time to restock on fuel. It had one good burst left, if he was lucky, He’d have to time it just right.

“You’re better than the others, I’ll give you that.” The compliment of her words didn’t reach her tone. “How did you know about this?” Her free hand, the one not holding the blaster, _his blaster_ , gestured to her damaged eye. He said nothing.

She continued on, unbothered by his refusal to respond. “None of the others noticed. Not that it would have helped them much anyway.”

Again he remained silent. Let her talk. The more she went on, the more likely she was the give him an opening.

She looked him up and down, the blaster never straying from the unprotected gap at his neck between the cuirass and his helmet. “What are you supposed to be, anyway? Some new type of stormtrooper?” Her eyes crinkled, indicating a wry smile under her face covering. “Aren’t you guys usually… shinier?”

That was too much for him. “I’m not an Imp,” he growled.

A combination of confusion and doubt narrowed her eyes and her grip on the blaster, _his blaster_ , tightened. “But you work for them.” It wasn’t a question.

Again, he felt the need to refute her claim. “I’m a Mandalorian. I work for the Guild.” It was as good a defense as he could offer. Contracts were always handed out by someone higher up, with no direct contact between him and the employer. He was still relatively new to official work like this, but he knew the first rule of working for the official bounty hunter’s guild. _Don’t ask questions_. For the first time, he began to understand the implications of that rule.

She took his meaning in stride. “No questions asked, huh? Deniability doesn’t change anything, _Mandalorian_. Not for me.” He straightened a bit as her finger twitched on the trigger. His time was running out. “I’m not going back.”

He lunged, an outstretched hand grasping for _his blaster_ and knocking the barrel off target, just as she pulled the trigger. The resulting bolt ricocheted off his chest and into the woods, scorching a tree along its new trajectory. He didn’t waste time trying to wrangle the weapon from her hands, instead readying the flamethrower on his wrist.

The small pilot light had just ignited when he was knocked back, hard. His body flew backward, airborne by the incredible force, flames billowing from his wrist in his wake, before his flight was stopped abruptly by a large tree. His back took the brunt of the impact, the telltale crack of breaking bones followed shortly by the sound of the back of his helmet hitting wood. Inside the beskar, his ears rang as he fell to the forest floor. He landed prone, disoriented, and out of breath, the flame-thrower sputtering weakly as it burned through the last of his fuel.

The edges of his vision were already darkening when boots stepped into his limited view of the forest floor. He tried to move, tried to look up to see whatever end he was about to meet, but his body refused to respond. Instead, she crouched down to his level.

“I know the orders were dead or alive. A nice weapon like this,” she turned over the blaster in her hands, “you could have shot me and been done with it. But you didn’t.” Her eyes assessed his body, taking in the ragged rise and fall of his breath, before landing back on his visor. He blinked, trying unsuccessfully to chase away the encroaching darkness. “Probably just didn’t want to lug a dead body all the way back to your ship.” She seemed to be talking to herself more than him.

“Either way, fair is fair.” He felt her hands on his waist, felt her fingers pluck something from his belt. The blackness had all but claimed his sight as the world around him grew quiet. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled by his impending unconsciousness. “Might be time to start asking questions, Mandalorian.”

——————————————————————————————————————————

He woke to utter darkness. Darkness and… pain. With no small amount of effort and grunting, he hauled himself to a seated position, leaning back against the same tree that’d wrecked so much havoc on his body. _Wayii, his body hurt._ Every breath was matched with a sharp pain in his side. _Broken ribs_. It took him a minute to remember how he’d gotten here, broken and alone in the night. _Tracking a bounty. A fight._ The details were foggy at best, coming back to him slowly one by one. He added a possible concussion to the mental list of injuries.

His hand fell to his hip and found the holster there empty. She’d taken his weapon. The realization pained him more than any part of his body. He wasn’t that he was defenseless. He had a whole locker of blasters back on the _Crest._ It was the principal of the thing.

He turned the infrared display on his HUD back one and looked around. Nothing. He hadn’t expected her to hang about, but it was worth checking anyway. If anything, he was relieved. He wasn’t in a state to pick another fight. Just the small movement of looking around made his body cry out in protest. He locked onto the _Razor Crest_ and began the long, painful journey back to his ship, letting his helmet guide him as he limped along and tried to work out what to do next. He needed to regroup. He needed to address his wounds. He needed to check the integrity of his armor. He needed to replace his sidearm. He _needed_ to get his blaster back.

Weapons were his religion, his identity, second only to his armor. He’d spent countless hours taking it apart, cleaning it, customizing it until it suited his needs perfectly. It was shameful, that he’d allowed her to disarm him. It was near sacrilege that she’d taken his blaster as her own. He felt off-balance without it. The empty holster at his side slapped against his leg with each step, a persistent reminder of his failure.

The bounty on her head was second place now. He didn’t care about payment anymore. He would find her and take back what was his.

By the time he made it back to his ship, his gait had devolved into less of a walk and more of a controlled stumble. He made his way to his medkit and found the last of his bacta injections. _Probably expired_. He hadn’t made time to top of his supplies for a few months at least. With a grunt, he jabbed the needle in close to where he guessed his ribs had fractured. Expired or not,he felt some relief after a few minutes. At least he could take a full breath, even if it still hurt to do so. He paused to work his lungs, hoping the added oxygen would help clear his head. When it didn’t, he hauled himself up and made his way to the refresher, a handful of loose painkillers in hand.

In the cramped quarters, he finally removed his helmet, turning it over in his hands as he looked for any sign of damage. A few cosmetic scuffs on the back, a bit of dirt in the seams of the visor; nothing a little cleaning and polish wouldn’t take care of. His head was another thing altogether.

The mirror was small. There wasn’t much reason for anything more sizable when no one ever saw your face. He leaned in close and checked his eyes. Mismatched pupils looked back at him. _Dank ferrick. Definitely a concussion._ There was little he could do for that now. He downed the painkillers, not bothering with water to help wash them down. With a sigh, he placed the helmet back over his head. With any luck, it’d be better by the time he caught back up with her.

He pulled out the bounty puck and turned on the holoprojector housed inside. Unlike his usual bounties, there was no picture, just a dark silhouette, enough to indicate that she was human. Also missing was the reason for the bounty. What information was provided was sparse at best.

_Lisria Arbitath: Human/Female_

_Aliases: Unknown_

_Standard Galactic Age: 24_

_Height: 5’8’’_

_Distinguishing marks: Unknown_

So either the client didn’t know about the scar on her eye, or it was new.

He wondered if she’d left the planet yet; if she even had the means to leave. He reached for the fob to check it’s proximity alert. And found it missing. Vaguely he recalled the feeling of her hands on his belt, just before he’d lost consciousness. She’d taken the fob. It made sense that she’d known to look for it if she’d already dispatched three bounty hunters before him. Without it, he’d have to comb the whole planet on foot, hoping to stumble across some sign of her. A planet she might have already left. The leather of his gloves squelched as he clenched his fist in frustrated resignation.

For the first time in his career, Din Djarin, the Mandalorian bounty hunter, had let one get away.

——————————————————————————————————————————

_It was a mistake to let him go._

Lisria shook away the thought again. It had nagged her since she had stood to walk away from the hunter. _The Mandalorian_ , whatever that was. He’d said it with no small amount of pride like she was supposed to know the meaning of the weight he put behind it.

Truth was, she didn’t know much about the galaxy outside her limited experience of it, and even that she didn’t like to think about for any longer than she had to.

_He knows what you can do. He can’t be allowed to live._

“No,” she said, hoping to drown out her inner voice by speaking out loud. He hadn’t tried to hurt her, not until she’d accidentally pulled the trigger in the chaos of him reaching for the blaster, anyway. She wasn’t a killer. Not unless she was left with no other option. Not anymore.

Besides, he'd be lucky to remember anything after that bump to the head. She’d gotten what she wanted from him. Now she just had to make sure she wouldn't have to worry about him, or anyone else for that matter, finding her again.

In the hull of the small gunship, she turned over the fob in her hand. The last hunter they’d sent after her, a foul-mouthed female Rodian, had finally told her what she wanted to know. The Guild, the organization that oversaw bounty hunters and assigned their targets, gave out fobs. That’s how she’d found her. That how they _all_ kept finding her. It was keyed into her biorhythm. It didn’t matter where she ran. It didn’t matter what she did. As long as she was alive, they would always have a way to track her down.

The hunter had been trying to get in her head, throw her off balance so she could get the upper hand. It had worked for a moment. Just a moment. In the end, Lisria walked away with the fob, the entry code to the Rodian’s old starship, and her life. The nameless hunter had not been so lucky.

The old fob sat in its newly revised state on the small table in the ship’s galley where she’d labored over it since. She’d taken it apart, carefully examined its components, did what she could to figure out just how it worked. She knew how to cloak a ship’s signature. Surely this wouldn’t be much different. It had taken a while, but she was pretty sure she’d figured out how to rig the device to transmit a reversed beacon, something that would cancel out the signature of her own unique biorhythm.

The problem was, she had no idea what that was. It’d been stored on the fob, but that data had been destroyed when she’d taken apart and reassembled the hardware. Without that key piece of coded information, all her work was moot. She needed another fob.

And the Mandalorian and brought it to her. The very man who had come to capture her had unwittingly delivered the key to her freedom.

With a satisfied smirk, she flipped the fob in the air, caught it triumphantly, and headed up towards the flight deck. Coordinates set for the farthest planet within range of the ship’s remaining supply of fuel, she gathered her supplies and set to work.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The cantina was abuzz with activity. These bars were the same on every Outer Rim planet: watering hole for criminals, smugglers, and otherwise lost souls. It was as good a place as any to find work. Nobody asked too many questions, so long as you didn’t ask too many of them in return. She’d found a crew looking for a mechanic, and she’d known just enough about starships for them to agree to hire her on. That, and she hadn’t asked what the job was. They seemed to appreciate that.

It’d been four months since she’d left Entralla. Four months since her run-in with the Mandalorian. He’d hadn’t come after her. Neither had anyone else. It was the best indication she could hope for that the modified fob, now hanging hidden under the cowl around her neck, was working. She was finally well and truly free and now she had a job. Sliding into an empty seat at the bar, she ordered a drink to celebrate.

“That’s quite a blaster you’ve got there. What is that, a custom make?”

Lisria turned to face the man who had sidled up beside her, not in the mood to entertain another drunk flirt who couldn’t keep his trap shut. A man, no older than herself, was leaning casually on his forearm against the bar, radiating an easygoing attitude that directly opposed her own. A shaggy mop of dirty blonde hair sat atop a rather angular face, spotted with stubble and already rosy with drink. His eyes, a soft blue in hue, grew wide as he took her own.

He whistled appreciatively, jerking his chin towards the scar that marred her left temple. “And that’s quite a mark. How’s something like that happen?”

Either he didn’t get this place’s unspoken rule of “no questions” or he didn’t care. “Stormtrooper,” she replied curtly, taking a swig of her drink as soon as it was delivered. It stung the back of her throat and inhaled sharply to chase away the sensation.

With a casual wave, he hailed the droid tending bar and wordlessly pointed to her drink, ordering one for himself. He cast a gleaming, crooked smile in the droid's direction by way of thanks before turning it back on Lisria. “You mean one of those pasty assholes actually managed to hit their mark?” She huffed out a semblance of a laugh at that. No matter how hard the Empire tried to intimidate the galaxy, it didn’t make the marksmanship of their foot soldiers any less of a joke.

“How’d you manage to walk away from a blaster bolt to the face?”

He didn’t look the part of the usual drunk, but so far he was ticking all the boxes. _Can’t keep his trap shut. Check._

“A little crooked,” she replied flatly, hoping he would read her tone and get that she wasn’t in the mood to talk. He let out his own laugh at that, but his eyes were still trained on her, inquisitive. He wasn’t going to let this go. She sighed. “I was wearing some... protection.”

“Ah, a helmet. Now that makes sense. No one could shoot a pretty face like that.”

_Flirt. Check._

The droid dropped off a copy of her own drink in front of the man, and he took a large swig, not even wincing as it went down. “How did you find yourself on the wrong end of an Imp’s blaster?”

“Shot his friend.”

He let out a loud bark of a laugh. Lisria didn’t share in his mirth. She swirled her drink around in the glass, finding it easier to concentrate on the movement of the liquid than that particular memory.

He looked her up and down, his gaze more appreciative than leering. “So what’s a pretty face like yours doing in a skug hole like this with a blaster like that?”

 _Did this man ever shut up?_ “Trying to avoid more Imps.”

He grew quiet beside her, his carefree demeanor suddenly gone as he studied his own drink for a few seconds. His expression looked as though he was turning over an idea in his head. “Yeah, less and less places to do that these days.”

She sighed. That was true enough. She’d been hopping from one planet to the next ever since Entralla, always barely a step ahead of the Empire. At this rate, there would be nowhere left to run. This job would a respite from fleeing. A temporary, fleeting respite. “You can say that again.”

He looked at her carefully. “How’d it feel, shooting that stormtrooper?”

“Better than getting hit.” He didn’t laugh at her dry wit this time. Again, he wasn’t going to let her avoid this question. She took a deep breath, trying to find the words for a true answer without giving too much away. “If felt… freeing.”

He smiled. Not the large, goofy grin he’d been wearing earlier, but a small, knowing smirk. Lisria had the impression she’d said just what he’d wanted to hear. “Wanna do it again?”

Ovot, much like his mouth, was never still. His arms moved animatedly as he spoke, even when he tried to keep his speech hushed. They’d moved to a booth in the very back of the cantina, trusting the shadows and the crowd to hide their conversation from anyone who might take issue with what they were discussing.

“When there’s no action, I spend most of my downtime in places like this, looking for recruits. Anywhere things are bad, you’re sure to find someone who’s got a healthy distaste for the Empire. The real trouble is finding someone who has something to offer, who can actually help. With a piece like that on your hip, I figured you could handle yourself.”

Lisria couldn’t help but let a smile tug at her lips at his snap judgment of her abilities.

He continued without pause, not giving her a chance to tell him she wasn’t interested in whatever he was trying to rope her into. “Where’d you get that thing, anyway?” He gestured to the blaster at her hip. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

For a moment she considered lying. Ovot clearly liked to ask questions, and she wasn’t ready to share much about herself. Not to someone she’d only just met. Not to anyone. Not yet. But Ovot’s easy familiarity was beginning to win her over. Something made her feel safe with him. She hadn’t lied yet. What was one more truth? “Took it from a Mandalorian.”

“You’re joking.” The look of pure awe on Ovot’s face told her she’d just confessed to something he considered a great feat. Maybe she’d been wrong about the bounty hunter’s apparent self-importance. Perhaps it was well earned.

“I’m not,” she replied evenly. She didn’t even care about the blaster. Not really. It’d just seemed like a good idea to disarm the man intent on capturing her. That, and it didn’t hurt to have some protection handy.

“Oh hoho, I like you. You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

Lisria decided she liked Ovot as well. She'd been on her own for so long, and he wasn't bad company. He talked enough for the both of them, and she found she enjoyed listening to him as rambled on, wild movements threatening to topple his drink at any given moment.He was passionate, and it spilled out of him in every way imaginable. It made him larger than life, like a planet unto himself. She felt herself being drawn into his orbit against her better judgment, his earnestness endearing. It made sense that he’d be tasked with trying to bring others to his cause.

His cause. _The Rebel Alliance_. A ragtag group scattered across the galaxy, trying to take down a galactic superpower. Lisria didn’t bother to voice her doubts over their chances of success at such a monumental task. She didn’t want to get into just how she knew taking down the Empire would not be as easy as he made it sound. She doubted Ovot, with all his enthusiasm, would have listened anyway.

He was serious about trying to get her to come back with him. She tried her best to brush off his interest. “I’ve already got a job.”

He leaned forward, fists clenched in determination. “I’m not offering you a _job_. I’m offering you a chance to make a difference. You’ve seen what they’ve done so far. There’s only a handful of places not already under their control. Less every day. They’re not going to stop until they take over the entire galaxy until they’ve got everyone under the oppressive yoke of the Emperor. Not unless someone,” he gestured between the two of them, “does something about it.”

Her face must have told him she wasn’t quite convinced His expression turned somber. “Listen, I get it. It’s a lot to ask, of anyone. They’ve got the numbers. They’ve got the resources. They’ve got the weapons. The odds aren’t exactly in our favor. But we already beat the odds once. I mean, we blew up the Death Star! What’s a little Imperial clean up after something like that? The more help we get, the faster we can...”

The world around her grew silent. She could tell Ovot was still talking. She could see his mouth still moving, his hands waving wildly as he tried to accentuate certain points, but none of it reached her.

 _They blew up the Death Star? It’s gone?_ She’d been on the run for over a year now. It made sense that she’d missed out on some news. But this… how had this escaped her notice? _If a couple of rebels in X-Wings could take down the most dangerous weapon in the galaxy…_

“Hey, you okay?”

 _There_ was _a chance. They could be stopped._ “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations (courtesy of mandoa.org) -
> 
> Mando'ad draar digu - A Mandalorian never forgets  
> Beroya - bounty hunter  
> Wayii - good grief


	2. Aay'han

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whereas it seemed the others had fit the Way into their own lives, Din had allowed it to shape his. 
> 
> It was his sense of duty that brought him back to the covert after every job. And it was his desire to be alone that drove him on to the next job. The push and pull of his life; keeping him on the move even as nothing really changed. 
> 
> \----------------------
> 
> “Welcome to home base!” Ovot flung his arms wide, gesturing to the scene before them. “Well, this week’s version of it at least.” A passing Kubaz clicked in what Lisria could only guess was his form of a laugh. “So what do you think?”
> 
> If she was being honest, it made her uneasy. She felt like an intruder in the obvious camaraderie that permeated this place.
> 
> But Ovot’s face was so proud, so full of expectation. She struggled to find a way to voice the truth without offending him. “It’s… not what I expected.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emphasis, my friends, on the slow build/slow burn section of the tags.

“Mando!” Greef Karga’s greeting rang out loud and clear across the cantina. The man commanded attention and seemed to relish in it. The same could not be said for Din Djarin.

Around the bar, heads turned, all attention now on the Mandalorian as he made his way quickly to his employer’s usual booth, doing his best to keep the lingering pain in his ribs from affecting his gait. Just about every bounty hunter in the Guild already disliked him, envious of the favor his efficiency was quickly earning him. He didn’t want to give them any reason to consider challenging their chief competitor.

He was used to being leered at. Few people, he knew, ever saw a Mandalorian. For most, they were no more than legends. He couldn’t blame them for their curiosity, their fascination, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

With the weight of shame and failure on his shoulders, he liked it less than ever.

“I was beginning to worry you’d met the same fate as your comrades. I am glad to see you returned in one piece, my friend.” Karga leaned back casually, his usual glass of spotchka in his hand as Din removed the Amban rifle from his back and slid in the seat opposite. Karga always started their conversations this way, with a ham-fisted attempt at familiarity. Din wasn’t sure why he insisted on trying so hard. It was never reciprocated.

“I need another fob.”

“Of course! And do not worry, this latest setback has not changed your standing in my eyes. As ever, you will have your choice of quarries. Business is good as of late. I have some easy, yet rewarding targets that have just arrived. Perfect for getting back on your feet, as it were.”

“Not a new fob. Hers.”

“As stalwart as ever, I see.” Greef studied him for a moment, doing his best to scry something, anything, from the cold reflection of the Mandalorian’s t-shaped visor. As always, he came up empty-handed. “I could give you another fob, Mando, but I’m afraid it won’t do you any good.”

Din cocked his head in question, urging him to continue. “It seems the fobs on that particular bounty no longer function. Or rather, they work, but there is nothing for them to lock onto.”

“She’s dead?”

“I didn’t ask,” Greef replied pointedly. A reminder. _No questions_. “But in my opinion…no. The bounty still stands. If anything, this development will only increase the price on her head. A sizable sum, to be sure. But without a tracking fob, I doubt anyone will be able to collect.”

Din sighed, his shoulders deflating as the sound escaped through the modulator. Without a fob,he had no means of finding her again. No way to take back what she’d stolen. The finality of his failure began to sink in. Not his failing as a bounty hunter, but as a Mandalorian.

He could not grapple with the implication of such a thing here. Not in front of Karga, and certainly not in front of the other bounty hunters. “Then I’ll take as many as you can give me.”

Greef clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit, my friend!” He slid four tracking fobs across the table, followed shortly by four bounty pucks. “By the time you return you will have forgotten all about your troubles on Entralla. And if not, a healthy stack of credits will surely do the trick.”

 _Doubtful_. The Mandalorian scooped up the proffered devices and stood to leave. He was about to turn away when he paused, addressing the Guild leader again. “I still want her fob.”

“Have it your way.” He pulled the fob out of an inner pocket of his robe. “But I warn you, Mando, not to waste your energy on a fruitless chase. Better to focus on the riches of your future than to dwell on the past, don’t you think?”

He was just about through the bazaar when he stopped, the curtained alcove that hid the entrance to his covert tempting him to enter. That was the routine, after all. Take off, complete a job, collect the reward, drop off whatever he could spare for the covert, repeat. But this time he had nothing to offer them. Part of him, the part that believed so earnestly in the Creed and the community it fostered, thought he might find solace among his fellow Mandalorians. They, at least, would understand how shaken the loss of his weapon had left him. Then again, they were just as likely to shame him for it. Paz, at least, would relish the opportunity to hold something like this over him. Easier to jump back on the _Crest_ and work through his defeat alone. Easier to come back with something to contribute.

He turned away and continued walking to his ship. The blaster he’d pulled out his weapons locker shifted within its holster with every step, not large enough to fill the space left by its predecessor. He’d have to make some adjustments on his way to the first bounty, maybe even a leather closure. He might not stand a chance of getting his old blaster back, but he’d be damned if he ever lost another weapon.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Nothing about the Rebel Alliance base made sense to Lisria. It was chaotic. Disorganized. She looked around, trying to make sense of the scene around her as Ovot spoke to one of his companions. Occasionally he would gesture in her direction, no doubt filling them in on where he’d dug up his latest recruit. Lisria paid the conversation no mind, too distracted by the discord that surrounded it.

When Ovot had told her there was a group dedicated to defeating the Empire, she’d expected an efficient military operation. Nothing here looked like that. The closest thing to a uniform was the bright orange flight suit of the pilots that hovered around their ships, checking their instruments or even simply chatting with one another. The lack of homogeny did not stop there. Beings of every size and species wandered around the hanger, stopping to greet each other as they went about their business. Occasionally she heard someone referred to by rank, though the tone never carried the respectful weight she anticipated.

 _How did these guys manage to blow up the Death Star?_ She couldn’t decide if the Rebellion was more impressive than it looked, or if the Empire was weaker than it appeared. The truth, she guessed, lay somewhere in the middle.

Two women, both mechanics judging by the oil stains that littered their clothes, laughed as one of them found herself tangled in the wiring under a shuttle. Lisria stared at the pair, the scene more alien to her than any species she’d ever seen.

His conversation over, Ovot turned back to face her, his voice pulled her attention back to him. “Welcome to home base!” He flung his arms wide, gesturing to the scene before them. “Well, this week’s version of it at least.” A passing Kubaz clicked in what Lisria could only guess was his form of a laugh. “So what do you think?”

If she was being honest, it made her uneasy. She felt like an intruder in the obvious camaraderie that permeated this place.

But Ovot’s face was so proud, so full of expectation. She struggled to find a way to voice the truth without offending him. “It’s… not what I expected.”

“Surprised? Wait till you see the rest.” With that, he grabbed her hand and pulled her further into the structure.

She was welcomed into their ranks without question, something she took as a clear sign of the rebellion’s desperate need for any help it could get its hands on. Despite their ready acceptance, they were at a loss as to what to do with her. Her impaired vision eliminated her from any pilot work, a fact that seemed to dishearten command. Pilots, it seemed, were sorely needed and in short supply.

Anything involving weapons seemed off the table as well, despite her insistence she was good with a blaster. Ovot, too, came to her defense, pointing out the impressive weapon on her hip. That had earned her appreciative look from the Lieutenant interviewing her, but not the position. She couldn’t blame him. She knew what she must look like, the milky coating on her eye declaring her limited sight. It was no wonder they didn’t trust her ability to fight, and she couldn’t very well tell them why their assessment was wrong.

After some deliberation, she was assigned to ship maintenance. According to Lieutenant Davin, as she learned he was called, she could at least learn the basics while handing off spanners to more experienced mechanics. Ovot leaned in and whispered conspiratorially into Davin’s ear, earning him a wry smile from the officer. Ovot’s responding smile was wide, his eyes glittering mischievously. She didn’t know what to make of this casual, almost playful exchange between Ovot and a superior officer. She was suddenly aware of how rigid she seemed in comparison.

Shaking his head, Lieutenant Davin tapped out a few lines on his datapad before addressing her again. “Right. Report to Gray squadron tomorrow. In the meantime, Ovot here can finish showing you around. Welcome to the Rebellion.” With that, he turned his attention back to work and Lisria felt Ovot gently lead her out of the room. 

The chaos of the hanger extended throughout the rest of the operation. Ovot led her first to the bunks, a crowded arrangement that offered little privacy, something she was starting to realize was not on the Alliance’s list of priorities. He pointed out different posts and stations as they went, giving her a loose idea of the way the base operated. There was order in the chaos, after all, she gathered, even if it looked nothing like what she was used to.

They ended their tour in the mess hall, a slapdash grouping of tables and chairs in the largest room not already occupied by starships. Just as Lisria’s anxiety had started to wane, Ovot led her over to a group gathered at a table near the center of the room. A man, a woman, and a female Twi’lek sat around a game of sabacc. They all wore the orange flight suits Lisria had witnessed in the hanger, though they were unzipped and in various states of undress.

“Gray squadron, this is Lisria Arbitath, our newest mechanic. Lisria, meet the best pilots in the Rebellion.”

Three pairs of eyes turned up to where she stood next to Ovot, the onslaught of attention triggering her instinct to turn tail and run. Only Ovot’s hand, firm and grounding on the small of her back, kept her from doing just that.

“Pfft, don’t believe him,” chided one of the pilots, a sturdy looking woman in her forties, her dark skin emphasizing the brilliant white of her teasing smile. “We’re second-best if that.”

“Which just goes to show the incredible standards of the Rebellion,” quipped the man to her left, draping an arm affectionately over her shoulder, using the proximity to steal a look at her cards. “If you ask me, second-best in the Alliance is the same as second-best in the galaxy.”

She angled her cards away from him, obvious to his attempt at cheating. “I’m not so sure about standard around here. They let you in, didn’t they?” The arm around her shoulders withdrew enough to give her a small shove. Both the insult and the assault were immediately laughed off.

“If the sleeping situation doesn’t scare her off, you two are sure to,” Ovot reproached, but his tone was as jovial as theirs.

The Twi’lek stood, offering a light purple hand to Lisria. “Nice to meet you, Lisria. I’m Yunn, and these blowhards with poor manners are Sanne and Linon.” The two bickering pilots nodded in her direction as their squadmate listed their names, offering warm smiles. Ovot gestured for Lisria to join them. She sat next to Yunn, finding her politeness more welcoming than the brash teasing on the other side of the table.

Ovot sat on her other side. He leaned over, slinging his arm casually over the back of her chair. “I’d say you get used to it, but…”

She didn’t get used to it per se, but it quickly became less intimidating. Despite the near-constant barrage of jabs being thrown back and forth, the four were clearly close. An odd sadness fell over Lisria as she realized this was probably normal for a group of close friends. She had nothing to compare it against.

“So you’re going to be our new mechanic, huh? Wonder how you got roped into that?” Linon shot Ovot a playful glare.

“What?”, exclaimed Ovot, an exaggerated look of innocence on his face. “We need an extra pair of hands.”

“With the way you fly, Ov, we need as many as we can get,” Sanne added.

"Hmm, if I recall, _I_ wasn't the one who fried their astromech by trying to fire photon torpedos mid-jump," Ovot retaliated.

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Lisria cut in, having finally found the courage to join in the conversation. “I know a little about starships, but I’ve never worked on an X-Wing before.”

“Not many outside our fleet to practice on, I imagine,” Yunn said. “I’d be surprised if every X in the galaxy wasn’t already flying for the Rebellion.”

“You’ll catch on quick enough,” Sanne assured her. “Part of the reason we use them is their reliability. They hold up against slap-shot repairs better than most starfighters out there. Comes in handy when the Empire controls just about every port from here to the Reaches.”

Apparently, everyone’s work was done for the day, and the five of them spent the rest of the night talking over half-ignored games of sabacc. At one point Lisria even tried a hand, Ovot pointing out the best cards to play whenever she found herself at a loss. They asked her a few questions about herself, just enough to be inclusive without prying. She even found herself joining in their jokes, her dry sense of humor blending well with their constant ribbing. By the time the evening came to a close, Lisria decided she liked Ovot’s friends. They shared in his genuine nature, even if they lacked his unique brand of magnetism.

The day’s events caught up with her rather suddenly, and when she’d yawned twice within minutes, Ovot offered to show her back to the sleeping quarters. She accepted gratefully, knowing the chances of finding it again on her own were slim.

She took in the base around them as they walked; the crumbling walls, the hobbled-together machinery, the mismatched uniforms of each being that passed by. Again, she found herself wondering how such a disorganized operation, staffed by such easy-going crew, had any hope of bringing down the Empire.

Ovot must have noticed her look of consternation, and slowed his pace. “I’m sorry if they were a little much,” he said, misjudging the reason for her furrowed brow. “I know they can be a little… overwhelming at first.”

“Oh no, it’s not that!”, she rushed to assure him. “I like your friends. Really, I do.”

“What is it then?”, he pressed.

“They’re just… not what I expected.”

Ovot stopped walking and looked at her critically. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. ‘Not what I expected’. What _did_ you expect?”

He thought she was insulting his friends, the Rebellion, maybe even him by extension. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she tried to backpedal, but he looked unconvinced. “I guess… I guess it’s just a lot more _casual_ here than I thought it would be.”

For a moment his face didn’t change, and she was sure she’d somehow managed to make things worse. Then, suddenly, he laughed. “So you thought we’d be a bunch of buttoned-up stiffs? Even after meeting me?”

When he put it that way, her expectations did seem ridiculous. Still, she couldn’t wrap her mind around how The Rebel Alliance, with all its apparent laxity, could hope to fight such a meticulously run military as the Imperial fleet; a concern she finally voiced aloud.

She recognized the serious expression that came over him, the same one he’d worn when he’d tried in earnest to convince her to join. “We’re not fighting the Empire for galactic control here, Lisria. We’re fighting for freedom, for the ability to live life without fear. What good is fighting for ideals if you can’t enjoy them yourself? When the time comes, everyone here does their duty, and they do it well. But in the meantime, it’s important to remember that there’s more to life than war and struggle. It’s important to remember what we’re fighting for. That’s how we’ll win. Not by giving into fear, but by holding onto hope.”

It had the ring of rehearsal to it, as though it was something Ovot repeated to himself as much as others, but it still held the weight of his belief. She found herself wanting to believe as well. “I’ve never really had much hope,” she found herself telling him.

Ovot seemed to take that as a challenge. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”

Lisria, it turned out, was a very good mechanic. Technology had always made sense to her. Wires, circuits, couplings… it was all one big puzzle in the end, and she had an instinctual ability to put the pieces together. Over the years she’d occasionally been able to make practical use of that talent. The modified tracking fob, hidden under the layers of her tunic and jacket, serving as evidence. It only took a few days, long enough for her to learn the different parts of the ship and their functions, before she was elbow-deep in the guts of Sanne’s fighter, rewiring the phasers to bypass an unnecessary cool-down period that had been troubling the pilot for months.

“Leave it to Ovot to go chasing after a pretty girl and come back with the best mechanic in the fleet,” Linon praised, not missing the chance to get a dig in at the same time.

“I’ll have you know I have an eye for skill. I would never let my personal desires influence my judgment,” Ovot defended, his tone taking on a mock solemnity.

“Sure.” Linon turned to Lisria, still half-buried in wires. “How long did it take him before he started dropping lines?”

Lisria made a show of considering the question as she tied the wires of the nav systems together, recalling their first interaction. “Two minutes?”, she answered, grinning. She was beginning to fall into the joking rhythm of the rest of the squadron, and Ovot made for an easy target. “Asked me why someone would shoot a pretty face like mine.”

“I knew it!”

Ovot shot her a look of betrayal, but his pale eyes sparkled with the playfulness of the conversation. “It’s a nice face, I’ll give you that, but if you recall it was the blaster on your hip that caught my attention.”

Sanne looked up from the control panel she’d been monitoring, making sure Lisria’s adjustments were working. “So you were looking at her ass?”

Ovot sputtered. “No, that not… I wasn’t….”

Linon laughed at his struggling friend, clapping him on the back. “Stick with admiring her face. Much more romantic.”

She concentrated on tidying up the mess of wires, hoping no one would notice the flush involuntarily creeping along her cheeks. Ovot was a ceaseless flirt. It was as much a part of his personality as his passion for the Rebellion. She suspected he paid her special attention out of pity. She knew she wasn’t pretty. She might have thought of herself more kindly once, but the scar on her face and the discoloration of her eye had chased away any such notion.

But knowing his motivation didn’t make his teasing any less effective.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Din looked at the slabs of carbonite hanging in the corner of the _Crest_. He _was_ good at hunting. He hadn’t even realized he’d been harboring doubts over his abilities until he’s assuaged them.

Maybe Greef was right. Maybe a few jobs would be enough to steady his weakened confidence.

But that wasn’t true. Not yet, anyway. A few bail jumpers hardly made up for the humiliation that still hounded him. Next time he’d go after more something more difficult; something that would prove to himself that he was still worthy of the helmet he wore and the weight of the Creed it carried. And if that didn’t work, at least it would be a challenge to break up the monotony that had settled over his life.

He made his way back to the gunship’s cockpit, punching in Navarro's coordinates into the nav system, barely looking at the controls as he did so. The return to normalcy was almost comforting, even if this was his least favorite part of the routine.

He didn’t like dealing with Karga and the man’s unearned familiarity. He didn’t like suffering the lingering looks from fellow bounty hunters and civilians alike as he walked through the streets of that desolate planet. Even the covert, among the safety and fellowship of other Mandalorians, brought little comfort. It was the only place he could claim to belong, but it had never felt like home. The Armorer, the alor of their clan, was always grateful for his contributions. The others always greeted him respectfully enough. His work helped keep their secret community afloat, and day after day, year after year he earned his place among them.

They accepted him, even if that acceptance was minimal.

He knew he was lacking in the social graces, even by the low standards of a warrior clan living in secret in the sewers. He was polite, courteous, and generous by all accounts, but he was also reticent, quiet, and solitary. Some took his demeanor as an insult, misreading his reserved nature as arrogance. Paz Vizsla, in particular, seemed to hold that particular view.  
  
The truth was Din was just no good at connecting with others. When it came to marksmanship, tracking, or tactical planning, he was second to none, but ask him to hold a casual conversation and he floundered. Without the topic of a mission or a job to lean back on, he was left to stand on his own two feet, and that foundation was shaky at best.

Things had been different when he was a child. In the foggy memories of his life before the Creed, he remembered laughing freely; never afraid to show affection to his parents or anyone else he knew. But they were all gone now, and in their absence, that child had grown into a hesitant and emotionally closed-off man. The Creed had been his rutter in an unmoored existence, a steady pillar of faith to turn to in times of uncertainty. Whereas it seemed the others had fit the Way into their own lives, Din had allowed it to shape his.

It was his sense of duty to his community that brought him back to the covert after every job, not the community itself. And it was his desire to be alone that drove him on to the next job. The push and pull of his life; keeping him perpetually on the move even as nothing really changed.

——————————————————————————————————————————

A few weeks after her arrival, Gray Squadron was called to action. She performed her final checks on Ovot’s X-Wing with her characteristic thoroughness. It was the first time her work would be battle-tested, and the last thing she wanted was for something to go terribly wrong because she’d overlooked a loose coupling.

She’d just finished when Ovot strolled up, suited up and carrying his helmet casually under one arm. Only he could make an orange onesie and a bulky life support vest look good.

“Careful banking left,” she told him, trying to sound unaffected by the strapping pilot in front of her. He was about to risk his life, this was hardly the time to get distracted by the way he filled out his jumpsuit. “I adjusted the control feedback. She’ll probably be more responsive than you’re used to.”

“Sure. Right.” He was seemed uncharacteristically distracted. Even the idea of taking on the Empire always filled Ovot with unwavering dedication. Why, then, did he seem so preoccupied now that he was about to fight them head-on?

She wrung an oil rag in her hands nervously. “And remember, I cut down the delay on your laser cannons. You’ll be able to get blasts out faster, but they’ll need time to cool down if you fire too many rapid shots.”

Ovot opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself. Instead, he studied her face for a long moment before finally responding. “Yeah, I remember.”

 _What is going on with him?_ There was no time to ask.

“Time to move out!”, called Yunn, already shutting the lid to her cockpit.

Ovot was halfway up the ladder that led to his own cockpit before he suddenly jumped down. Before she knew it, his lips were on hers, hands cradling her head as he stole a quick, passionate kiss. When he pulled away, his usual, confident smile had returned, the light of determination once again illuminated in his eyes. “For luck,” he explained.

Lisria didn’t know how to respond. Nevertheless, she tried, mouth flapping uselessly over words that wouldn’t form. Not that it mattered. She was sure the heat in her cheeks spoke volumes.

He was already in the cockpit, flipping on the switches that made up the fighter’s launch sequence. “Hold on to that thought,” he called down to her. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

He kissed her for luck before every flight after that. And, just as she had when he and the rest of the squadron returned safely that day, she always kissed him “welcome back”. Soon they were kissing each other “good morning” and “good night”. Eventually, they needed no other reason to come together than that they wanted to.

When Ovot showed up one night with the blanket from his cot and a hungry look in his eyes, she had followed him without hesitation.

“You never told me how you managed to take this off a Mandalorian.” He’d grabbed the blaster from where she had thrown it in her desperation to rid herself of her clothes. She lifted her head slightly from where it lay pillowed on his bare chest to better look at the weapon.

She shrugged and shifted closer, pressing against him. The night air, so pleasantly cool against their feverish bodies earlier, was starting to become more chilly than soothing. “It’s not that exciting. I knocked him down and plucked it out of the holster on his belt.”

“Okay, sure, but a _Mandalorian_? Do you even realize the clout something like that could earn you across the galaxy?”

Again, Lisria felt out of the loop. What, exactly _was_ a Mandalorian anyway, and why did everyone seem so impressed that she had taken one on? “No, not really. I didn’t really think anything of it until your reaction that day in the cantina.”

“Kriff, that makes the whole thing even hotter.” His hand slipped down to cup her rear, pulling her flush against his side. Her questions about Mandalorians died on her lips as they met his.

Ovot was full of surprises. The way he faced each new challenge head-on, the steadfastness of his character in the face of defeat, the way his passion for life and their fight for freedom translated into every aspect of his life, even their stolen, intimate moments together.

He surprised her with how natural it felt to be with him, as if they’d merely been reunited after an extended absence rather than having just met over a year ago. It had frightened her, at first. Relationships of any sort were new to her, let alone what had blossomed so quickly between them. But he was patient with her, and her trust in him only grew.

He surprised her with his unwavering resolve, even after they lost Linon. The loss of his friend only seemed to strengthen Ovot. She’d felt guilty, crying into his shoulder in the middle of the hanger. She should have been the one comforting him, after all. He’d known Linon longer, fought beside him, watching him die. But Ovot didn’t shame her for her sadness, only shared it with her. In short order he’d pulled the entire squadron out of their despair, celebrating their comrade’s life even as he reminded them all to honor his sacrifice.

He surprised her with his uncanny ability to get her to open up. She’d been so hesitant to talk about her past, afraid of seeing hatred or judgment reflected in the eyes of someone she’d come to care for so deeply. He hadn’t pushed her, either sure she would tell him eventually or unconcerned about it altogether. One night, months after their first kiss and in the safety of darkness, she’d finally whispered to him the secrets of her past, the story of a life long gone and painfully remembered.

He surprised her by taking it in stride. He’d held her tight throughout the night, murmuring praises and reassurances to her as she clung to him and silently cried. And in the morning, when she awoke still wrapped in his embrace, his eyes held none of the resentment she’d feared; only the same unreserved adoration he’d held her in since the first time she’d watched him climb into his X-Wing.

He surprised her with his talk of life after the war. He told her of the litany of worlds they might call “home” once the fighting was over. Or maybe, he mused, they would buy a ship of their own. Between his skill at flying and her mechanical mind, there was no limit to the possibilities. The details changed from day to day. The only constant was that no matter what they chose, they would do it together.

During her time with the Rebellion, Lisria had learned to embrace chaos, joy, and most of all, surprises. So long as she had Ovot by her side, there was nothing the galaxy could throw at her that she couldn’t handle.

Then, just when the end of the war was in sight, and the future they dreamt of together was finally within reach, he surprised her by dying.

She felt it; the exact moment he died. She couldn't say how, but she knew it for certain. It hit her without warning. She knew physical pain. She’d had her fair share of it through the years. But this… she had no name for this. It was as if part of her heart had suddenly turned to ash in her chest. She fell to her knees, unable to stand against the abrupt emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole. Around her, the battle raged on, blind to the suffering of one lowly foot soldier as they fought for the fate of the galaxy.

For years afterward, those in the know would ask her about the Battle of Endor, how it felt to watch the second Death Star explode in a shower of spark and flame, what it was like to know that the Empire was finished once and for all and to have been a part of it. She never had the answers they were looking for. She barely remembered any of it. All she could recall was the dreadful feeling of inexplicably knowing that the man she loved, the only person to know her completely, was gone forever. 

Yunn found her hours later, standing in a daze on the fringes of the celebration on Endor's surface. She’d dreaded having to break the news to her friend, but one look at Lisria told her she already knew. Without a word, she enveloped Lisria in a hug. It took a moment for the embrace to be reciprocated, and when it was, the mechanic’s arms were shaking. As gently as she could, Yunn led them both to an overturned log.

They sat there in silence for a while. Lisria stared blankly at the nearest fire, unable to shake the mental image of similar flames in the cockpit of an X-Wing as it spun out to its doom.

Yunn placed one of her purple hands on Lisria’s pale, trembling one. “He loved you. I’m not sure if he ever said it, but he did.”

He hadn’t said it. He hadn’t needed to. He’d shown her, every single day. “I know.”

“He’d probably tell us to stop moping. The Empire is through, that’s what’s important. Now, the galaxy finally has a fighting chance… some stupid banthashit like that.”

Lisria looked to her friend in astonishment. In all the time she’d known Yunn, she’d never heard the Twi’lek say anything rude, let alone swear. It was a timely reminder that she wasn’t alone in her grief.

“Fight for the Rebellion, die for the galaxy,” she replied, echoing a sentiment they’d both heard Ovot repeat countless times. Yunn huffed out a laugh in fond remembrance.

Yunn was quick to join in. “Every Rebel is worth four Imps. You’re not allowed to die until you’ve taken out at least four TIEs.” This time, both women chuckled. That was one of Ovot’s more ridiculous catchphrases, reserved for newly recruited pilots before their first dogfight.

It was Lisria’s turn to invoke Ovot's words. “There’ll be time for tears when the war is over.”

Silence once again took over as the weight of what she’d just said settled between them until was broken by a loud boom. Both women looked up as the sky erupted in a brilliant display of fireworks, blue and green sparks joining the countless pinpoints of starlight overhead.

Yunn glanced over to Lisria and saw the light show reflected in the glossy surface of her friend’s eyes. She turned back to the celebration above. “Well, the war’s over.”

“Yeah,” Lisria spoke to stars. At long last, she let the tears fall. “The war’s over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations (courtesy of mandoa.org) -
> 
> Aay'han - bittersweet perfect moment of mourning and joy (remembering and celebrating)  
> Alor - leader, chief


	3. Tom'urcir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just about every voice sounded the same through a modulator, but Lisria couldn’t shake the feeling that this one was familiar. Surely this couldn’t be the same Mandalorian she’d encountered on Entralla years ago. This one’s armor was certainly more ostentatious than the one she’d grappled with. Still, a Mandalorian strapped to the nines and flying a gunship could only mean one thing.
> 
> A bounty hunter.
> 
> She’d been stupid to think that she was safe. A modded fob was never going to be enough. It didn’t matter that the Empire had scattered and fled to parts unknown. It didn’t matter that the war was half a decade in the past. Somewhere out there, someone knew what she’d done. Someone knew what she was. So long as that was the case, they would never stop chasing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All circles presuppose they'll end where they begin but only in their leaving can they ever come back around."

For once, no one was looking at the Mandalorian. As he entered the cantina, the unofficial headquarters for this sector’s chapter of the Guild, all eyes were trained on the flickering holoprojector that had been set up on the bar. Din stood on the outskirts of the gathered audience as they watched the short recording as it repeated in an endless loop.

_“So the rebels blew up another Death Star,”_ he thought bitterly as the image exploded in a shower of blue sparks for the umpteenth time. _“Good for them. At least they got to this one before it obliterated another planet.”_

He could hear the echoes of joyous celebration outside as the news made its way through the civilians of Nevarro. If they were hearing about it here, so far into the Outer Rim, word of the latest blow against the Empire must be spreading across the galaxy like wildfire. Din imagined similar celebrations of varying degrees taking place on just about every settled planet.

The mood inside was much more subdued. The closest thing he saw to joy on the faces around him were a few small, satisfied smiles. The majority of them looked on with expressions closer to disappointment.

Personal opinions on Imperial rule aside, just about every bounty hunter has a vested interest in the Empire maintaining control. The Guild never disclosed who was bankrolling their commissions, but as a general rule just about everyone knew the majority of the jobs that came a hunter’s way were courtesy of the current ruling power. Government, especially a tyrannical one, provided steady work when your job was catching wayward criminals. And as far as governments went, this one paid particularly well.

The Rebellion might be fighting for freedom, but they weren’t putting credits in anyone’s pockets.

The dour mood amongst his fellow Guild members was unsurprising then, even if he thought it was unwarranted. The Alliance had dealt another blow. The Empire would turn around and deal another right back. On and on it would continue until it didn’t. Eventually, one side would come out on top. When that happened, Din could worry about what that would mean for him. No use crying over Bantha milk that hadn’t even spilled yet.

A few dozen cycles of the same image were more than enough for Din to get the point. He looked around for Karga, anxious to trade in his latest haul and get back into the black, but for once the man was nowhere to be found. With a heavy sigh, he turned to leave. He was just about through the doors when a whispered conversation caught his attention.

“They say the Emperor was on that thing when it went. Do ya really think he’s dead?”

Did stopped dead in his tracks, tilting his helmet towards the two men huddled against the wall. The second nodded solemnly, oblivious to the eavesdropping Mandalorian. “Blown to bits, along with most of the higher-ups, that’s what I heard.”

_Well that changes things._

The first man frowned, the expression somehow making his deeply scarred face even uglier. “I got two rebel sympathizers in my hull. What are the chances ol’ Palpatine paid in advance?”

“I’d worry less about getting paid by Imps and more about getting pay _back_ from the rebels. Word is they’re already setting up their own government. ‘The _New_ Republic’ or something like that.”

“Stupid kriffing name.”

Din left them to discuss their opinions on naming conventions. If the Emperor was actually dead, the war was sure to take an interesting turn. He made his way back to covert to share this latest development with the alor.

Palpatine, it turned out, did not pay in advance, and what was left of his regime wasn’t prioritizing settling up with the Guild. Din joined most of the other hunters in taking a loss with his latest jobs.

From what he could tell, most of the other hunters had no qualms about the lives they’d pointlessly ended, choosing instead to mourn the credits they’d miss out on. At least he’d brought his now-defunct quarry back alive. He always tried to give them a choice: dead or alive, warm or cold. Bounty hunting wasn’t the most honorable profession, but it didn’t have to be completely ruthless. It didn’t feel right to kill someone when he didn’t even know what’d they’d done to land their puck in his hands. Especially since, under the Empire, the reason could be as insignificant as voicing dissent.

Thankfully, Greef was more than happy to take charge of unfreezing and taking care of his now worthless load, clearly anxious to ingratiate himself with anyone who might be able to put in a good word with whoever was calling the shots these days. Din left him to it, eager to get back in the black and get a better idea of what was happening in the galaxy at large.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The war was over. That’s what they’d told themselves as they celebrated on Endor. Their optimism only made sense: another Death Star destroyed, this time the Emperor and every notable member of the Imperial Navy’s high command along with it. Without them, what leg could the Empire hope to stand on? Sure, the dogmatic ideals of Palpatine’s regime would not disappear overnight, but the galaxy was finally free; free to fight alongside the Alliance against any Imperial holdouts that might try to maintain their twisted version of order.

The fight wasn’t entirely over, but the end was in sight. The war was over. All that remained was cleanup. That’s what everyone told themselves.

But they underestimated the strength of the Empire’s dedication to their fallen leader. Whatever the Emperor couldn’t control, he eliminated. With his death, the entire galaxy fell into the latter category.

And he’d planned for it: _Operation: Cinder_.

No sooner had the New Republic declared itself the new ruling authority than it faced its largest challenge. Their fledgling forces, cobbled together from what remained of the Rebel Alliance and civilian volunteers, came face to face with all that remained of the Imperial fleet, bent on destroying as many planets as possible. It was the Empire’s last stand.

It took three months. Three months of needless destruction, of countless lives lost before the Imperial Navy finally scattered to parts unknown. Finally, it could be said with confidence and certainty: the war was over.

For that, Lisria knew she should be grateful. The fighting, the bloodshed, the needless cruelty of the Empire - it was finally finished. How could she bemoan the future of one lonely soul in the galaxy compared to all that?

Still, as the last remnants of the Imperial fleet were defeated or chased into the Unknown Regions to fade into obscurity, she found herself longing to return to the reliable routine of conflict. As twisted as it might be, it had been a comfort. For just over two years she had awoken each day knowing what was expected of her, that what was she was doing was just, and that she wasn’t doing it alone. The Rebel Alliance, more specifically Gray Squadron, had assumed a role in her life that she had never known: family. 

But now the Empire was gone, and it had taken everything she’d come to love with it. Her purpose, her family, and most importantly, it had taken Ovot.

The pain of losing him had yet to fade. Everyone assured her it would in time, but for all their encouragement, she couldn’t see an end to her grief. This future, the one she was about to embark on- it was supposed to be theirs to share in together. How could she ever be content, knowing the life she could have had? What joy could she possibly hope to find without him?

She’d been given a choice to sign on with the newly formed New Republic. A new government meant a new military. Not one of war, but one of peace-keeping. Plenty of those who fought beside her had gone that route, Yunn and Sanne among them. It was good, as far as job offers went, but Lisria declined.

It would only be a hollow echo of what had been the best years of her life. Even now, every time she so much as looked at an X-Wing, she saw Ovot climbing into the cockpit, his crooked smile still visible through the shield of his helmet. Happily giving all that he could to the cause. The idea of fighting off that memory every day was simply too much to consider.

Besides, now that the fighting was over and bureaucracy could settle in, this new government would probably ask more questions than the Alliance had, and she wasn’t sure they’d like what they found if they dug too deeply into her past.

“I’d hoped what was left of Gray Squadron would stick together,” Yunn sighed when Lisria broke the news. “How am I ever going to trust another mechanic with my wings?” But she didn’t push the subject, only making Lisria promise to keep in touch.

Sanne hadn’t been so quick to leave Lisria to her own devices.

“What will you do?”, she questioned Lisria. Time was running out, the only remaining task of reallocating abandoned Imperial supplies almost complete. Yunn was gone, already on a New Republic assignment.

Lisria looked around the hastily-built base. It was emptier than ever, more and more Rebellion-turned-New Republic troops trickling out into an Empire-free galaxy every day. Soon everyone would be gone, her only ties scattered among the stars. “Honestly, I have no idea.” She had no family, no home planet, no connections to fall back on. “I figured I just hop on a random shuttle, see where it takes me. Hopefully somewhere quiet, out of the way.” She shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter where I end up, I’ll be starting from scratch either way.”

Sanne did not like that answer. “No way. There is _no way_ I’m going to spend the rest of my days wondering if you’re begging for credits in the streets of some skug-hole moon at the edge of the galaxy.”

She tried to assuage her friend’s concern. “I’ve gotten pretty good with ships. I’m sure I’ll be able to find work.”

Sanne gave her argument serious consideration before a smile enveloped her face. “I might have an idea.” Lisria opened her mouth to object. She didn’t want Sanne to go out of her way for her. “Before you say anything,” the pilot interjected, “you’d be doing me a favor. I won’t promise you’ll enjoy it, but it’s steady work - hard work - and you’d be good at it.”

When Lisria didn’t attempt to argue, Sanne took it as a cue to continue her pitch. “I have an uncle in the Outer Rim. He’s got a nice little spot out there servicing starships. Mostly local work, but there’s a lot of it. I know he could use some help. He’s not getting any younger.”

Lisria gave her friend a cautious look. “Sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

“He’s an asshole.” Sanne grinned devilishly. “But if you want to keep working on ships and want to stay off the grid so to speak, his shop is the perfect place.”

Lisria weighed her options. It would be nice to have a destination. If a surly old mechanic was the biggest con, well, that more than made up for the alternative of planet-hopping again. “Where is this uncle of yours?”

And so Lisria found herself in one of the last shuttles off-planet with little more than her blaster, a medal in recognition of her service, a handful of credits, and the coordinates for her post-war life.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Pamarthe. Landing a fully-functioning ship here was already threading the needle. Landing the _Crest_ in its current condition was like aiming for the eye from across the room. The planet was almost entirely ocean, save for the small, rugged islands that dotted its surface and the one he was aiming for was one of the smallest among them.

But Din knew his ship inside and out. It wouldn’t be the first time he attempted landing as his ship threatened to fall apart around him. If his questionable luck held, it wouldn’t be the last.

Behind him, the kid squealed, apparently delighted with the bumpy ride of a barely functioning ship entering atmo. _Nothing phases that little womp rat._ For the hundredth time, Din wondered if that was a good or bad thing, but the thought was interrupted as yet another alarm sounded. He punched the button to silence the useless racket and gripped the steering mechanism with both hands, throwing his entire body weight into over-correcting for their accelerating descent.

They made it, but only just. The old gunship has given up the ghost at the last possible acceptable moment, dropping itself unceremoniously onto the landing pad from a considerable height. The jarring impact had left Din’s teeth rattling. He looked back, worried for the kid, but found him still securely strapped in and giggling.

He could only shake his head. Standing, he gathered the child in his arms, absentmindedly straightening the makeshift garment around its neck. “I’m going to go see about repairs,” he explained. “I need you to stay out of sight until I come back for you.” He tried to put as much weight into the order as he could. It was probably useless. He had no idea if the kid understood a word he said, and if he did, he seemed to delight it disobeying. He opened up the door to the small compartment they shared for sleeping and placed the kid gingerly into the crudely made hammock inside. “I’ve never been to this planet before. Not sure how friendly the locals are.” He rubbed a long green ear affectionately. Din didn’t like leaving him alone like this. Peli had admonished him for it on more than one occasion. But needs must. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.” With that, he shut the kid inside.

He’d heard of Pamarthe. Supposedly the place was a breeding ground for top-tier pilots. An odd thing to gain notoriety for, but if the planet was crawling with starships, then chances were their mechanics would be worth their salt. On the long list of things he was in desperate need of, a quality mechanic was currently at the top. He strapped the Amban rifle over his shoulder, taking comfort in the weight of the weapon on his back, and opened the hatch.

Immediately his ears were assaulted with the sound of grinding metal. No sooner had the ramp hit the ground than a gruff voice called out over the noise. “Quite a landing. If it weren’t for the state of your ship, I might take you for one helluva flyer.”

Din turned towards the voice and saw the man who addressed him exiting a small office. To say the man was old was an understatement. His bent back and stiff hands told of a lifetime of hard manual labor. Countless deep wrinkled folded over his dark skin, lending an even more critical air to his stony expression. His eyes, however, yellowed with age as they were, still sparkled; a sign of the sharp mind confined within.

“My ship is in need of repairs,” Din offered, hoping to cut to the chase.

“I got eyes, son,” the man quipped, shifting his gaze to the sorry ship behind the Mandalorian. “And ears for that matter. Thing sounded like a crash of rancors on its way down. What’d you do, pick a fight with an asteroid field?”

Din decided that didn’t warrant a response. The man eyed him up and down before continuing. “I’m guessing it’ll take a lot of work to get that thing flying again.”

“I can pay,” Din assured him.

“A lot of expensive work.”

“I can pay,” he insisted.

The man’s narrowed eyes burrowed into the visor of his helmet, sizing up the armored man before him. Without breaking eye contact, Din produced a hefty sachet of credits from his belt and tossed them to the mechanic. To his surprise, it was snatched cleanly out of the air. With one hand, the man weighed it in his hand before depositing the entire thing in the pocket of his disheveled coveralls. “Your ship’s almost as old as I am,” he mused. “Might have a tough time finding parts.”

“Can you fix it or not.” This old geezer’s uncooperative attitude was quickly wearing on Din’s patience.

“Me? Nah. I’m too old to be crawling all over ships anymore.” He turned and began walking back towards the building he’d emerged from. “My assistant, they’ll see what can be done,” he called out, not looking back. With that, he disappeared inside.

Din waited for the said assistant to appear. When no one surfaced, he gathered he would have to search them out himself. With a sigh, he descended the ramp, the sound of screeching metal guiding him through the yard.

Following the racket, he rounded the corner of a small structure. There, he found both the source of the noise as well as who he assumed was the old man’s assistant. The figure clad in worn coveralls similar to their counterpart’s, albeit a size or two too large for their slighter frame.A large welding visor covered their face, protecting them from the shower of sparks that erupted as they drew a vibrosaw through a large sheet of durasteel.

Din waited patiently behind them, knowing it was probably best not to interrupt. As he watched, his anxiety over leaving his ship in their hands faded. Assistant or not, this person was obviously skilled. He’d tried his hand at this kind of metalwork before, when there’d been no better option than to take repairs into his own hands. The demonstration before him put those attempts to shame.

After a few moments the cut was complete, the durasteel now in two clean-edged pieced. They stepped back to inspect their work.

“Excuse me. Your boss said to see you about my ship.”

They didn’t bother to turn around before responding. “My boss. Hah!” With her back still turned, she busied herself with a dustpan, cleaning up the shards of metal left behind from her work. “Pain in my ass, more like. He’s just begging for a boot in his exhaust port.” It was impossible to tell if she was joking, her deadpan tone giving little indication.

“I’m sorry,” Din tried. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

She walked over to a bin marked ‘durasteel’ and deposited the scrap metal to be melted down and repurposed. “Don’t worry. Deng always tries to pull that ‘assistant’ crap with new customers. Makes him feel like he’s still import…” The word died on her lips as she finally turned and faced the Mandalorian.

The welding mask was still down, but he didn’t need to see her face to guess what was going through her head. He knew the stiff posture, the tensed muscles of someone suddenly afraid. He’d seen it a thousand times. Most of the time it wasn’t completely unwarranted, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating when he was doing something as simple as trying to get his ride fixed. He put his hands up, careful not to move suddenly, trying to convey that he didn’t mean any harm.

“I’m just here to get my ship repaired,” he explained. “Your b- Deng took my credits and told me to talk to you.”

For a moment she didn’t move, didn’t speak- just looked back at him through the opaque wall of her protective gear. Din thought vaguely of the futility of two faceless beings trying to navigate fragile social interaction before she seemed to come to her senses.

“Sure. Yeah, of course. Sorry.” She stepped past him, giving him a wide berth, and started moving around the corner towards his ship. He dutifully fell in step behind, careful to keep enough distance so as not to frighten her any more than he already had.

“A _Razor Crest_ , is it? Can’t say I’ve ever worked on one of those before. Rare to see anything pre-Empire these days. People around here tend to like their ships new and shiny. She’s a gun-ship, right?” There was a slight tremble to her voice, evident even from behind the face shield, which she still hadn’t raised.

Din was familiar with this type of nervous rambling. A particularly chatty Mythrol jumped to mind. He nodded.

“Well, I just gotta grab the paperwork, then we’ll get started. Be right back.” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and headed to the same door the old man, Deng, had gone through before.

Once she was inside, Din found an old supply crate and sat down, heaving a weighty sigh. He should be used to this by now; inspiring fear everywhere he went, but he wasn’t. Intimidation had its time and place. It was useful, for example, when trying to compel a bounty to surrender without putting up a fight. He didn’t particularly relish the back that it colored every interaction in his life.

Nearly every interaction.

Cara seemed incredibly at ease around him, but he figured that was at least partially thanks to the fact that she could hold her own against him. Even Karga, despite their unlikely friendship, operated with a certain degree of uncharacteristic caution when Din was present.

Since the day he swore the Creed, only two beings had treated him warmly from the outset.

One he’d buried in the barren lava fields of Nevarro.

The other was tucked away in his bunk.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The minute the door shut behind her, Lisria lifted the welding mask. The panic she’d been holding back, the panic that had started the moment she’d turned around and saw the Mandalorian, bursting forth in form of rapid, useless breath. _They’d found her. After all this time, they were still hunting her._

Just about every voice sounded the same through a modulator, but Lisria couldn’t shake the feeling that this one was familiar. Surely this couldn’t be the same Mandalorian she’d encountered on Entralla years ago. This one’s armor was certainly more ostentatious than the one she’d grappled with. Still, a Mandalorian strapped to the nines and flying a gunship could only mean one thing.

_A bounty hunter._

She’d been stupid to think that she was safe. A modded fob was never going to be enough. It didn’t matter that the Empire had scattered and fled to parts unknown. It didn’t matter that the war was half a decade in the past. Somewhere out there, someone knew what she’d done. Someone knew what she was. So long as that was the case, they would never stop chasing her.

Through the pounding in her ears, she could just hear Deng calling her name. Deng. She couldn’t let him get wrapped up in all of this. Sanne had been right, her uncle was an asshole, but only on the surface. Beneath the biting remarks and cutting jokes, he was a hardworking, selfless man. He’d initially put up a fight when she showed up on his doorstep, scowling and muttering that he didn’t need some “two-bit, half-wired assistant”, but he’d still opened up his business and his home to her. He’d taught her everything he knew, even praised her when she picked something up quickly. Now, years on, he talked about leaving her the shop over shared meals.

She rushed into their small kitchen, where Deng was sat hunched over one of his old adventure holobooks. “Looks like you got your work cut out for you with that one. Might have to order some…” he trailed off as he took in the panic etched in her features. “Lisria? What’s wrong?”

“Stay here Deng. I mean it. If I’m not back in 20 minutes get rid of my stuff. Burn it. All of it. Destroy any evidence I was ever here. If anyone shows up asking about me, you hired me a few days ago. Barely knew me, can’t even remember my name, you got it?”

He started to stand, his face twisted with worry. “What is going on? Who is that out there?”

“I don’t have time to explain. If something happens, you have to get rid of any sign of me. Deny I was ever here. If you have time, tell as many as you can to do the same. Tell me you understand, Deng.” She fought hard to keep her voice under control, unsure if the Mandalorian outside could be listening even now. “Please, tell me.”

Deng’s features hardened, echoing the same expression his niece had worn before taking off for a mission. But his eyebrows were knitted in anxiety. “I got it.”

With a quick nod, she scurried out of the kitchen, half-running, half-stumbling down the short hallway to the glorified storage area she’d called a bedroom for the last five years.

It was sparse. Neither she nor Deng were inclined towards decoration. Besides her small mattress, there was only a storage trunk occupying the small space. She rushed to it, throwing it open and haphazardly tossing aside her few articles of clothing and notes until, buried at the bottom, she found it.

The blaster. It was wrapped in her old Rebel fatigues, both having long since been deemed useless. She hadn’t fired it once, for practice or otherwise, since she’d joined the last push on Endor. She doubted her rusty skills would be any match for the career warrior waiting outside, but there was no way she was going out there empty-handed.

There was no time to linger. The Mandalorian would grow suspicious of how long she was taking if he wasn’t already. The chances of him actually buying her story about ‘paperwork’ were already slim.

She’d given herself away the minute she saw him. The minute she’d frozen. Despite her urgency, her feet drug as she walked the few paces to the door. Deng was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, his face once again overwhelmed with concern. His eyes darted between the blaster in her hand and her face, the creases between his eyebrows only deepening.

“20 minutes,” she repeated, forcing as much calmness into her voice and expression as she could manage. Deng nodded solemnly.

The office was the first room in the cramped dwelling; the last stopgap between her and whatever fate had in store. She grabbed a random clipboard from her desk, not bothering to see what the paperwork attached was in reference to. To her relief, it was just large enough to cover the blaster, provided she approached the hunter straight-on.

As an afterthought, she grabbed the small sachet full of credits from where Deng had deposited it on his own desk. _Worth a try_.

With a shaky hand, she pulled the welding mask back down over her face. The Mandalorian had had plenty of opportunities to take her. Who knows how long he’d stood behind her as she meddled with that blasted plate of metal. It was a long shot, but if he was waiting to make sure she was his quarry, any uncertainty over her identity might buy her a few precious moments.

With a final, steadying breath, she opened the door.

He was sitting down. The arrogant prick wasn’t even on his feet. It ignited a spark of defiance within her. He thought she was going to be easy prey. _I’ll show him._

Still, she had one last card to play. A hail mary, if there ever was one.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice measured, trying to sound as unaffected as possible.She took a few steps towards him, daring to close the distance in case it came to utilizing the hidden weapon. The closer she was, the greater her chance of hitting the mark. “I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to service your ship after all.”

He stood slowly. When he spoke, his voice radiated confusion and frustration. “The old man already took my credits. I have more if it’s not enough.”

“Not about credits.” She tossed the bag back at him, careful to keep the blaster out of sight and aligned behind the clipboard in her other hand. He made no move to catch it, letting the small bag land with a jingle at his feet. “Can’t get the parts out here. You might have more luck closer to the Core. Plenty of scrapyards in the Mid Rim that might have what you need.”

“You haven’t even looked at it.”

Beneath the safety of the welding mask, nervous sweat began to gather at her hairline. She used to be much better at lying to people face to face. The comfort of this new life had dulled her edge.

“Don’t need to. Deng looked up your ship’s specs. We couldn’t replace the heating on that relic, let alone the engines.”

It was his turn to stand unmoving. _He wasn’t buying it._

“I don’t need it replaced, I just need it fixed. I’m not asking for an overhaul. I just need her to fly.”

Lisria swallowed thickly, trying to push down the anxiety that was steadily building in her chest. “I don’t know what to tell you, buddy. We can’t help you. Get a ride. I know some people two islands over that can give you a lift as far Lantillies if you need it. I’ll even pay you for the scrap. Should more than cover the trip.” It was awful of her, she knew; trying to pawn off this danger to a couple of young couriers, but she could wrestle with her guilt later if it came to that. She just needed him out of her shipyard.

His helmet turned, looking at the sorry state of his ship before turning back to her. “I’m not scrapping my ship.” He said with finality and took a heavy step towards her.

_Well, it was a long shot I suppose._

Before he could take a second step, she dropped the clipboard, leveling the blaster as best she could at the exposed area between his chest plate and helmet.

“That’s far enough, _Mando_ ,” she spat, throwing as much venom into the nickname as she could muster through shaking breaths. _Kriff, when had she gotten so soft?_ She’d faced down a Mandalorian before, not to mention the bounty hunters that’d come before.

But back then she’d had no idea what a Mandalorian was, no idea the fear she should have felt. More than that, she’d had nothing to lose. She’d been nothing, no one; all but hopelessly adrift and at the mercy of whatever direction the tides of fate decided to take her.

Now she had a life, a past worth remembering, even a future to look forward to, lonely and mundane as it might be. And the thought of losing it had weakened her.

“I tried to be nice. Gave you an opportunity to gather your things and leave. This is your last chance, hunter. Get out of my yard.”

With so little space before him, the dip in his helmet as his gaze dropped to the blaster was discernible. She watched his gloved hands clench, waiting for the slightest movement towards his own firearm.

“ _Gar_.”

She didn’t know the language, but the meaning was clear: recognition.

_No use hiding now._ Careful not to let her aim falter, she ripped off the welding shield and let him, once again, get a good look at her face. They studied each other in tense silence.

He was the first to speak. “You still have it.”

To her surprise, he almost sounded… relieved.

“So it is you. Almost didn’t recognize you with the shiny new get up.”

He offered nothing in response, the persona of polite, respectful patron long forgotten. The masked man before her was just as she remembered: a silent, deadly hunter.

His reappearance reawakened something within her, something that her time with Ovot, the Resistance, and then Deng had buried deep, hidden within the recesses of her inner self. A secret strength, a confidence in what lie within her.

What she was truly capable of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations (courtesy of mandoa.org) -  
> Tom’urcir - converge  
> Gar - you


	4. Art (?)

Hey friends! I didn’t get around to writing this week (because of a lot of things, including season finale stressin) but I did manage to churn out [this drawing of Mando](https://hamfeet.tumblr.com/post/637555449553633280/i-think-hes-done-tomorrow-ill-add-in-the-kid). I know it’s not the same as a new chapter, but I hope a little content is better than nothing. I promise the story continues very soon. 


End file.
